Ruth Wilson is a walking contradiction: those Red Riding Hood eyes, that lupine mouth. She’s been bewitching TV audiences for years, but has yet to star in a movie that does her justice. True Things – which Wilson co-produced – is the story of Kate, a millennial who’s lonely, sex-starved and easily bruised. Female masochism, again? You don’t have to be a glutton for punishment to love this, but it will definitely help.
Harry Wootliff’s first feature was Only You, a gripping, Glasgow-set romance. Her second is an adaptation of Deborah Kay Davies’ 2010 novel, True Things About Me.
Kate is reckless, irresponsible and addicted to Instagram. She works in a benefit office in Ramsgate, and gets chatted up by a new claimant, a swaggering ex-con (Tom Burke) who Kate dubs “Blond”. Their first date, which involves rough shagging, takes place in a car park. At the end of the second date, she cuddles his back and he says, brusquely, “What are you trying to do? Climb inside me?”
She’s needy. He’s seedy. As far as Kate’s concerned, it’s game on.
The sex scenes are raw and impressionistic, graphic and discreet. There’s a bout of cunnilingus on the beach, for example, yet our faces are never rubbed in Wilson’s body.
And if the plot is skimpy and predictable, the dialogue is vivid and droll. Early on, Kate and her new lover discuss their families. Her mother and father are called Susan and Trevor. Blond says he calls his parents “bitch and c***”.
Also excellent: a scene where Kate tries to establish some boundaries, vis-à-vis their relationship. By this point, Blond’s deserted her at a party, “borrowed” her car for a week and is ignoring her texts. And she’s drinking too much and barely eating. Kate’s discombobulation, when they meet in a pub, is tragi-comic. She resembles a teen in a French oral exam, struggling to remember useful vocab. “I would like to be your girlfriend!” she exclaims to her deliberately obtuse lover.
In Only You, the heroine’s desire to have a baby all but caused her to lose her mind. Wootliff is clearly fascinated by unravelling female psyches and she does all she can to put us into inside Kate’s skull. Bodies and landscapes move in and out of focus. At one point, the aspect ratio changes.
Of course, if you’ve seen indie classics like Carine Adler’s Under the Skin, Lynne Ramsay’s Morvern Callar or Xavier Dolan’s Mommy, Wootliff’s aesthetic won’t seem especially original. And the directors of Daphne and Saint Maud do more with the idea of an isolated, as well as sexually and creatively frustrated woman losing the plot. Several shots (a trapped and desperately buzzy fly; a writhing maggot in a freshly picked tomato) are a tad obvious.
Still, nothing can dilute the chemistry between Wilson and Burke.
In Joanna Hogg’s The Souvenir, Burke is horribly alluring as a well-heeled junkie who, when not stealing from his girlfriend, treats her like a doll. He is just as nuanced here as a Cockney control freak. It’s true, the film can ring false. Its leads? They’re the real thing.
102mins, cert 15
